


¡Viva la Revolución!

by NathanielCardeu



Series: The Malfoy Manor Fic War [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Humor, Rebellion, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-12 03:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11152893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NathanielCardeu/pseuds/NathanielCardeu
Summary: Hermione is fed up with the new regime at the Ministry, crushing the life and fun out of the Wizarding world. Things have to change...





	¡Viva la Revolución!

**Author's Note:**

> Another one from The Malfoy Manor Fic War!  
> I can't remember what the original prompt was, but this was a fun little fic to write, and I liked the concept of an almost 1985 style Ministry after the fall of the Dark Lord... Yes, I'm aware that it's completely over the top, but meh! :)  
> Enjoy!

The voice droned on, the mild tone generally pleasant but its monotony gradually wearing on the nerves. The vaulted ceiling of the classroom set, for the time being, on the fourth floor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, caused only the slightest echo; it did nothing to spoil the acoustics which ensured that none of the occupants missed a single word.

Not a single, tiresome word.

As the voice droned on into the second hour, Hermione could actually feel herself getting more stupider by the second. The only other sound in the classroom was the scratch of quill on parchment as the children copied every word… wait, did she just think the phrase “more stupider”? Merlin’s Beard!

The droning voice faltered as the speaker lost their place on the seemingly endless scroll. The children didn’t move, simply sat, patiently waiting for the teacher to continue to talk at them.

Hermione couldn’t do it; she placed the scroll on her desk and took a sip of water from the glass at her side. Her throat was sore from the two hour “lesson” she was in the process of delivering – Lesson 4b, sub section 5, on the properties of unicorn hair, as used in the art of wand making… even the title made Hermione want to take a nap.

Since the war had been officially declared as over, life had returned to normal but with a very fundamental difference.

It was boring.

Hermione readily admitted that the last thing she wanted was the fear and terror she had experienced three years ago, whilst her and her two best friends had hunted the Horcruxes that had led to Voldemort’s demise. Those months of running and hiding, the fear of discovery and death ever present, had been awful. Yet she had never felt as alive as she had in that time.

But, after the war, the new regime at the Ministry of Magic had effectively managed to crush the life out of all creativity. In fear of another war, or another Dark wizard rising, the Ministry had clamped down on as much as they possibly could; formalising everything, sterilising the world and creating forms for everything.

Wanted to get a job? Fill out a form and file it. Wanted to go shopping? Another form and your pass card would be sent to you. Gatherings had to be pre-approved by, no less, than three individual members of the Minster for Magic’s new “Revelry Team” – which, Hermione thought with a sigh, was the most ironic name ever, given that most requests were denied by these staid and perfectly beige individuals.

Lessons at Hogwarts had become structured to the point of rigidity. Each class was scripted, to the minute, with the children only having to copy the Professor’s speech onto their own scroll. The extent of the variety came in the form of passages where the children had to repeat lines back to the Professor, their own droning voices chanting formal words of particularly important lessons.

Professor McGonagall had retired shortly after the war’s conclusion. Professor Flitwick retired soon after the new laws were passed; some said in disgust at the lack of life in the new curriculum.

This left Hogwarts without a Head, or Deputy Head, to manage its stately halls and Hermione knew that she wanted the chance to mould the minds of the future witches and wizards. She had immediately obtained the necessary forms, filled them out in triplicate as required and taken her place in the queue outside the Application Office.

 

* * *

 

 

 

The queue stretched out, undulating like some strange, primordial creature as the witches and wizards that made up its component parts shifted their feet, waiting for their turn. Each held papers in their hand, each one hoping for a job, knowing that it was first come, first served under the new regime. If your paperwork was correct and you were first, you got the job.

It was pure insanity, as far as Hermione was concerned. The first person with the right paperwork gets the job? It was nonsensical in the extreme! But, nevertheless, she had her paperwork and it appeared that there were only a couple of people in the line ahead of her holding papers of the same colour, indicating they were after the position of Head or Deputy Head of Hogwarts. She could only hope that they had made some errors in the highly convoluted application form that would see them rejected. She knew that she had made no mistakes on her application form. She had checked and triple checked it this morning.

Time passed slowly in the large hallway. Hermione entertained herself by planning all the changes and improvements she would be making once she got the job as Headmistress. There was no doubt in her mind that the job would be hers; she was clearly the most qualified, if a little on the young side, but everyone she had spoken to about the position had voiced their support. It would be good for Hogwarts, they had said, good for the children too to be taught be a real Hero of the War.

She managed to pass several hours in this manner, as the line gradually wound its way forward. The office door, hidden around a distant corner, creaked and banged with regularity as it opened and closed to admit the patient petitioners. There were only 30 or so people ahead of her now and there was no longer any sign of any paperwork that matched hers. Those that had been ahead had left the office, dejected. She was clear; the job was hers for the taking!

Then she saw him.

Draco Malfoy was strolling nonchalantly up the hallway, not part of the queue, though Hermione knew he was currently looking for work. Even Daddy couldn’t provide everything under the new regime and Lucius was, according to the rumour mill, rather displeased to put it lightly. What was Malfoy doing here, at this end of the hall, walking up the line? He was very late if he was applying for any of today’s jobs.

His black suit was immaculate, with silver cuff links at his wrists, each containing a single stone that was likely to be worth a small fortune. A black leather folder was tucked under one arm, the thumb of his hand tucked nonchalantly in the waist band of his trousers. His shining blond hair caught the lights around them and reflected it back again. The same light was absorbed by his eyes, usually so grey and cold but now dark and dancing with barely suppressed mirth as he ran his eyes over the queue. Draco reached Hermione and paused for a moment.

“Granger,” he drawled lazily, looking her up and down, a momentarily disparaging look in his eyes.

“Ferret,” Hermione replied sweetly, fixing her eyes forward. “What brings you down here? Daddy run out of pocket money for you? Or are you trying to trade in another one of Lucius’ favours in return for a job? Because that went so well for you last time…” She trailed off, allowing that comment to twist Draco’s lips into a sour grimace.

“Nothing of the sort,” he said after a moment, his composure returning. “I am here as one of the masses, like the rest of you little folk. I need to work and, as this is how one applies for a job, this is where I find myself.” He smiled with a decidedly arrogant flash of perfect, white teeth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Granger, I saw young Mr Pucey up ahead and wish to discuss some matter with him before joining the queue. Good day to you.”

Draco finished with a short, abrupt bow of his head and swept off, further up the line. Hermione followed him with her eyes until he vanished from sight, as the queue curved around the corner. She shook her head, putting Draco Malfoy out of her mind for the time being. Time continued to pass by, however, and Hermione realised that Draco had not returned down the line.

She reached the corner and peered around it, feeling a surge of fury as she saw Draco, an application form in his hand, step into the office. He cast a smug grin her way as he vanished inside and Hermione scowled at Adrian Pucey, as he strolled past her.

“Pucey! What is the meaning of that,” she said, her hair crackling with anger. “Why is Malfoy going into the office, instead of you? Why were you saving him a place… Oh Merlin, no!” Her shocked exclamation echoed around the hall, silencing everyone as they turned to see what the commotion was. Hermione stared at the door in horror as the colour of Draco’s application form finally sunk into her mind.

His application form was identical to hers. He was applying for the job of Headmaster! And he was ahead of her in the queue. She whipped around to grab Pucey, but the dark haired man had taken her distraction as the perfect chance to escape. The people around her shrank back a little as she cast about in anger, impotent in her rage, with no one to lash out at.

She drew a shuddering breath and tried to smile at the people around her, hoping to calm them. Even to her it felt like a grimace and so she wasn’t surprised when no-one seemed reassured. They continued to shuffle their feet and avoid her gaze, leaving her to fume and seethe, muttering under her breath about the duplicity of Slytherins.

The wait became interminable; Hermione’s gaze was fixed upon the wooden door, as if she could see through it. She kept hoping to see Draco storm out in anger, or slink out dejected. She wanted him to fail so she could rub it in his pointy, arrogant face…

The door opened.

Draco stepped out of the office, his face fixed in a neutral expression. Hermione’s heart was pounding as the blond man casually walked back towards her. She searched his face for a hint of what he was thinking; some tiny clue in his eyes or line on his forehead. His skin was smooth and clear, free from any sort of blemish. Eyes the colour of a storm threatened sky, were turning towards hers, seemingly in slow motion. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him and, somewhere during his journey she found that she no longer remembered why she was staring at him. Or why she was imagining his hair, so fine that it was angel-wing soft, tingling the skin of her fingers.

Hermione knew he was still single; his short-lived romance with Astoria Greengrass had exploded onto the front pages when it had ended, acrimoniously, a year and a half ago. She had also been briefly – very briefly – involved with him shortly after the break up. It had lasted only one night and Firewhiskey had a large part to play in how they had ended up in a deserted corridor of a high priced wizard hotel, rutting wildly against the wall, as the rest of the party carried on, oblivious. Of course, soon afterwards, the beige brigade had been formed, and there were almost no parties after that. Or that much alcohol either...

No, Hermione could find no fault with Draco’s form; no fault at all. She bit her lip slightly as those steel eyes met her soft, brown ones. But then the smile, arrogant and sneering, bloomed on Draco’s face and Hermione felt that familiar rage surge through her body in an instant, reminding her of all his faults.

“You cheating, sneaking, Slytherin bastard!” she yelled, the people around her drawing away again in fear. She continued to yell insults as Draco passed her; he turned so that he walked backwards, his arms held out to his sides, laughing now.

“Don’t worry, Granger,” he said, “you can still apply to be my Deputy. It’s the only way you’re going to be under me again!”

Hermione’s face flared red as this brazen reminder of their one drunken liaison echoed around the hall, the other applicants gasping in excitement at this rare gossip. The bushy-haired witch had taken two steps, her wand drawn and pointed towards Draco, when the blond man waved a finger at her. “Careful, you don’t want to lose your place in the queue!”

With a frustrated growl she stepped back into the line as Draco’s voice floated back to her, from around the corner. “See you in school, Granger!” Then he was gone…

 

* * *

 

 

Hermione was shocked from her reverie and back to the present by the sound of a thunderclap booming through the classroom. Startled she looked up to see a huge plume of thick, black smoke filling the room, rapidly spreading from a pile of burning parchment, sat upon the desk of one of her students.

The student in question—a pale-faced, Scottish boy, with an unruly mop of brown hair, called Doug Rockhall—was desperately trying to hide his wand, clean his face, extinguish the flames and look innocent, all at the same time. He was failing, spectacularly. The other students were a scattering of shock that someone would dare to touch a wand in the classroom, desperate, wide-eyed attempts to pretend it wasn’t happening, or frantic efforts to help the unlucky student. The student that everyone knew was about to be punished, in no uncertain terms, by Professor Granger. In fact, they were also worried that helping might consign them to share Doug’s, no doubt, terrible fate.

A sudden burst of air swept the fire, the parchment, and the smoke into a tight, swirling grey ball. The compact sphere floated lazily away from the students and drifted out of the window, where it was scattered by the breeze.

All of the students span to face the front again, hands held motionless on their parchments, quills poised to write. Each one gazed forward at Professor Granger who, her wand still pointing at the window, was decidedly not looking at them. She stood like a statue, rigid and still but her chest hitched irregularly and she appeared to be chewing the inside of her mouth and biting her lip. She blinked rapidly and breathed through her nose while her lips twitched. The students were sure that she was about to condemn Doug to a lifetime sentence of… something terrible. Their young minds couldn’t come up with a punishment suitable for someone defying both a direct edict from the Ministry of Magic and Professor Granger.

Wand use was only to be done by licensed Professors in the classroom, to demonstrate and educate. Students were not supposed to use their wands except in null-shielded rooms and under strict supervision from a teacher.

Doug was in so much trouble!

There was a strange snorting noise from the front of the class and the kids saw Professor Granger’s shoulders shake, presumably with supressed anger. She cleared her throat delicately and turned to face the class, her heels clicking together on the hard marble floor, no doubt ready to pronounce sentence. Her whole body quivered and her eyes sparkled brightly as she turned them towards Doug. The others, almost unconsciously, leaned away from the doomed student.

As Hermione stared at him, Doug gave a small, sheepish smile, smears of soot across his face making him look like a panda. He tried to hold her gaze, until a cough burst from him, a small cloud of smoke puffing from his mouth.

Hermione’s laughter, starting with an un-ladylike snort, was loud, explosive, and boomed through the vaulted room, filling it to its distant corners. The shadowy extremities reflected the laughter back at the class and magnified it, until it seemed the whole room laughed too. The children blinked in surprise but remained still, knowing that punishment would be handed out if they reacted.

Hermione hung onto the back of her chair, desperately trying to remain standing, as her entire body was wracked with convulsive giggling. She abandoned her wand, dropping it on her desk and used her voluminous sleeves to wipe tears from her eyes, as she continued to chuckle. Sinking into her chair she grabbed a handkerchief from her desk and wiped her streaming eyes and nose. Her eyes were caught by something else in the drawer; an heirloom from her past. She tucked the thing into her pocket as the seed of an idea took root, grew rapidly, and bloomed in her mind. Still laughing to herself, she waved to the class and stammered at them to put their quills down.

The first years had never been told to do this, as it contravened a Ministry rule for Conduct in Class, and glanced at each other uncertainly. Disobeying a teacher, however, broke at least two more rules and so, slowly, the children began to replace quills in their ink wells.

Doug cast about desperately for his quill, finally finding it on the floor. Snatching it up he stuck it in the well, belatedly realising the feathery end was still smouldering. He desperately extinguished it with his sleeve, his face twisted into a grimace of terror. Hermione, seeing this, burst into renewed laughter, her sides aching and eventually devolving into quiet sniggers as she clutched her sides.

“Oh Merlin, my sides hurt! It feels so good to laugh again!” she gasped, tears in her eyes still. “Your face, Mr Rockhall… Oh my, you remind me so much of Seamus, when he set fire to that feather in his first year!” Her voice rose in pitch as the memory caused her to laugh again.

“Please, Miss,” said Doug brightly, “do ya mean Mister Seamus Finnigan?” The boy’s eyes widened in surprise as he realised he had spoken out in class and he clapped his hands over his rebellious mouth!

The other children stared at him in sudden horror, several making shushing noises. You didn’t speak during a class, no matter how unusual this one seemed to have become!

“Yes, Doug,” Hermione shrugged out of her stuffy robe, stripping back to her everyday attire; a simple, powder blue skirt and white blouse. “Seamus Finnigan and I went to Hogwarts together when we were your age, along with Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and our Headmaster, Draco Malfoy.” She smiled as she talked, feeling the words come smoothly and easily. How she had missed this! The simple telling of the past, without all the stuffy rules, felt so good and so rebellious at the same time.

“Now!” she continued, standing again. Several of the children made to grab their quills, but a wave of Hermione’s wand sent all of the ink wells flying at the wall. The sound of shattering glass split the sudden silence and the ink spread across the wall in thick, sweeping lines. The broken ink wells merged into a ball and joined the burnt parchment in the open air, outside the castle. “Let’s talk fun! Unicorn hair in wand making…” she continued, breezily, “boring lecture, never should have been written. All you need to know at your age is that it works. If, in a couple of years time, wand making grabs your interest as a career, then you will, possibly, need to read the stupid thing. But for now, let’s talk fun, shall we?”

She walked up and down the front of the class, her boot heels clicking loudly on the floor. Her students watched her attentively. Their minds were on fire. They had spent the last three months being talked at, copying text, writing essays. Never once had they been asked a question. Never once had they been invited to give an opinion. They were in uncharted territory now and the thought of it thrilled them.

“Enjoyment, fun and frivolity. Who were the greatest pranksters of the Wizarding world in the last century?” Hermione asked. No one moved or raised a hand. “Come on, you were young but surely old enough to remember them. Name them. Yes, Doug?”

Doug’s hand was in the air and, when Hermione pointed at him, he glanced up as if surprised to see it raised. “We’re not supposed to…” he stammered before Hermione interrupted.

“Talk about them? No, I suppose the Ministry has clamped down on discussing the people who once dropped a portable swamp in that corridor outside,” she said, pointing at the door, “which defied a Ministry appointed witch’s best efforts to dispel it. Granted, she didn’t get any help because she was, pretty much, universally despised by students and teachers alike during her time here. Professor Flitwick, a wonderful teacher that once worked here, was impressed with it and called it a good bit of magic.”

The children talked behind their hands at this but Hermione ignored them, a far off look in her eye. “You’re correct, Doug, as there are only two people you could possibly mean; 5 points for Gryffindor! Fred and George Weasley; the pranksters supreme. Creators of many wonderful things; including—but not limited to—the now illegal Skiving Snackboxes, Headless Hats, Puking Pastilles, Punching Telescopes, Canary Creams, Extendable Ears and the ever so popular, in my time here at least, Wonderwitch range. The two people who, despite causing mayhem in all its possible forms, often managed to escape detention. The only two students in Hogwarts history—that we know of—to get Peeves the Poltergeist to listen to them and do as they asked!” Hermione turned to the class, who giggled nervously. “Why do we not talk about these two wonderful people anymore?” A young girl’s hand went up at the back. “Yes, Miss Gregory?”

“Because the Ministry exiled George Weasley for treason against the new order, Miss,” the petite, blonde girl said. “But we’re not supposed to talk about it or name… them… oh...”

“Correct, Alicia, well done! Ten points to Ravenclaw… and then, sorry, minus five points for speaking his name and breaking a Ministry rule. So! These two were heroes; insufferable, irresponsible, and downright rude heroes. They tested their products on their own family and themselves, left Hogwarts—in spectacular fashion!—without a single N.E.W.T between them and, allegedly, released a Niffler into Dolores Umbridge’s office during their 7th year, even though they were no longer at school.”

The kids laughed at this, imagining the mayhem that must have caused.

Hermione smiled too, in memory. “Terrible, terrible people, according to the Ministry, but they were the greatest source of morale for the resistance during the war, alongside Harry Potter. Fred Weasley, with Lee Jordan, ran a secret radio show, called Potterwatch, designed to boost the spirits of those living under the dark regime. George and his brother created many products, designed to protect people from the Dark Arts, and both were extremely talented at Charms, Transfiguration, and knew this school, and all its secret passageways, inside and out. Fred Weasley gave his life, fighting the dark wizards and Ministry traitors, and George has continued to fight against boredom and non-creativity since the War, even in exile.”

“Please, Miss,” called Doug, his arm waving franticly again. “Can you tell us more about what happened during the war? Me mum won’t tell me nothing, but me dad is still in St Mungos cos of it. She says she can’t let me know what happened because of the Ministry’s orders.”

Hermione felt a twinge of pain at Doug’s hopeful face. The Ministry was trying to prevent another Voldemort but they had, in many cases, stunted these children’s development. Without the freedom to express themselves they would never have a generation that would flourish in the same way as Fred and George had. And without their influence of young, teenage rebellion there was a distinct chance that Voldemort wouldn’t have been defeated because there wouldn’t have been an army of determined young adults, fighting against him and his minions.

“Okay then, children,” Hermione said, sitting on the side of her desk. Picking her wand up again she flicked it deftly and muttered under her breath. A strange buzzing filled the air for the moment, tickling the children’s ears with its noise, until it settled into the background. The faint sounds from outside the classroom were extinguished in a moment. With the Muffliato charm securely in place she slipped something out of her pocket and continued, “Now, what have you heard about ‘The DA’?”

“The Dark Arts, Miss?” asked Doug, his eyes wide in fear.

“Not _that_ DA, Doug,” Hermione replied, with a wicked grin, holding up an old, battered looking coin.

 

* * *

 

 

Draco Malfoy, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, stalked along the corridor, his long, black robes swirling behind him in the wake of his rapid stride. His mouth was set in an angry line as he bore down on his target.

Bursting through the door he walked up to Hermione’s desk. The bushy-haired witch barely stirred from her papers as the Headmaster slammed his slim fingered hands down on the ancient wood.

“What,” he muttered,” the bloody hell, is going on here, Professor?”

“Marking papers, Headmaster,” Hermione replied, casually, “and your hand is smudging the ink on young Alicia’s homework. If you don’t mind, please?”

Draco stood back, brushing his hands clean as Hermione touched her wand gently to the parchment, clearing the smudged lines, ensuring the words became legible again.

“What are you up to, Granger?”

“Me, Headmaster?” Her grin was only partly hidden by her hair but Draco did not see it, gesturing at the ink stained wall as he was.

“Yes, you, you sneaky vixen! You’re up to something, trying to undermine my position here and I won’t stand for it. These pictures on the wall, they go against all the Ministry edicts,” he said, fingers thrust out to point at the various diagrams and portraits formed from the dried ink. “In the last few weeks your miserable bunch of miscreants has defied every rule and regulation in the handbook and has caused more disruption, throughout the school than Peeves ever did!”

“What have they done that is any different from anything you or anyone else in our year did, during our time here?” Hermione asked, looking up at him now. “Asked some questions? Played a few pranks?” She stood, her wand sweeping the desk aside as she advanced upon Draco. She shrugged free of her cloak, letting it fall to the floor. She was dressed in a form fitting blouse that accented her figure, knee-length black skirt and leather boots that reached her calf. The heels were long and pointed and tapped, menacingly, as she strode towards him.

The blond man backed away from her, involuntarily, nervous of the look in her eyes. Her hair was crackling with power, bushing out more than it had in a long time. Her wand was at her side but pointed in his direction. Draco backed up until his legs crashed into one of the low tables and he sat down with a thump.

“As usual, Draco Malfoy, you have little to no idea of what is at stake and so I find myself in the same, tiresome position of having to enlighten you.” Hermione walked slowly now, almost stalking Draco. “My little ‘bunch of miscreants’ are bringing life to this school; asking questions, opening their minds and actually living, as real people should. You may have missed it, but the teachers are delighted to actually help these kids, like they used to.”

“You know the rules, Granger. I could have you fired for this!”

“Maybe,” Hermione smiled, reaching Draco and lifting her leg up to his left side, her foot flat on the desk, skirt riding up her thigh. Her other leg pressed between Draco’s and she grabbed his collar, pulling his face to hers. “But you won’t, Mr Malfoy, will you?”

Malfoy gaped, finding his throat was closed and unresponsive as his nostrils were filled with the scent of parchment and vanilla. His eyes were drawn to Hermione’s breasts, concealed but obvious, beneath her blouse. They strayed further down to her right thigh, bare and pressed against his arm. There was a hint of bright blue lace beneath the edges of her skirt and he swallowed, snapping his eyes back to her face.

“You can’t hide it, Malfoy.” Hermione leant in close, brushing her lips over his ear. “You’ve wanted me ever since we started working together, a year and a half ago,” she whispered. "The almost unseen looks across the room, sly glances at faculty meetings... accidental brushes as we pass in the corridor. You want me, Malfoy." Delicately she took his earlobe between her teeth and bit down, hard.

Draco gave a cry of pain and staggered away from her, clapping a hand to his wounded ear. It came away bloody. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Hermione hadn’t moved. She simply turned slightly to watch him from beneath lowered eyelids, a small smile on her lips. “Simple, Draco my dear. First, you cheated your way into my job and I have been thinking up ways to make you pay. But then, over time, it became something bigger. The Ministry has gone too far. Life is dull, dreary, mundane… and I am sick of it. So, I am proposing a rebellion.” She lowered her leg languorously, letting the skirt slide slowly down her thigh and keeping her eyes on Draco. “The children are not learning anything in these conditions, Draco. You know this because you get all of the reports from the other teachers. I know how bad results are because the other teachers and I have been talking. They are the worst in the history of this school and it is because there is no creativity or spontaneity anymore.”

“So what do you think your rebellion will achieve?” Draco’s mouth twisted in a sneer. “Yes, results are bad but at least there is no chance of another Dark Lord.”

“Do you really believe that, Malfoy?” Hermione asked, moving towards him again, backing him towards the wall without touching him. “Do you think that there will be no one out there, studying the Dark Arts in secret, hiding from the authorities? What if they plan to tear down Hogwarts, the Ministry, and our way of life? Who will be there to oppose them when they finally reveal themselves? A Ministry full of scared stick-in-the-muds and a bunch of teenagers and young adults, who know the theory of magic, but haven’t cast a spell in anger in their lives? I don’t rate their chances!”

Draco’s back hit the wall as Hermione pressed herself against his body. He felt her breasts squash against his chest as her perfume filled his nostrils once more. “These kids of yours,” he muttered, breathily, “put illegal fireworks in Professor Slughorn’s cauldron, causing it to explode. The whole class, Horace included, had to spend two days in the hospital wing.”

“Oh relax, Draco. They’re just fireworks and a little bit of fun. None of them are going to become the next Voldemort because of it. Stop buying into the Ministry’s paranoia!”

Malfoy grinned slightly, feeling his body responding to Hermione’s. He couldn’t help it; she was right about one thing, at least. He had wanted this witch, so badly, in so many ways, ever since their drunken fumble, three years ago. The thought of just taking her, passionately, was raging through his body and her outright aggressive attitude was turning him on, more than he could imagine. He wanted her but couldn’t move; she had him pinned with her body, one hand gripping his jaw, her finger nails dimpling the flesh of his cheek.

“Now, Draco,” Hermione whispered, brushing her lips over his, “you have two choices in this situation.” Her free hand stroked along his side, snaking around his back to his shoulders before dropping to slip into the waistband of his trousers and pulled him closer. “You can, either, be the Headmaster who lost control of his staff and students and let them stage a dramatic rebellion against the government… or you can be the Headmaster that led those same staff and students in a coup that helped to overturn the ridiculous laws crippling this country’s youth. Your choice, Malfoy.”

In a sudden move, Hermione pushed away from him. Turning, she headed towards the doorway. “Oh, by the way,” she called over her shoulder, “one of those options comes with me included. Choose carefully, Headmaster.”

As she walked out of the class, her hips swaying seductively, Draco slumped against the wall, knees trembling and little crescent marks on his cheeks from her nails. His breathing surged in his chest and his heart pounded, fit to burst. His trousers were tight and his groin ached with need. There was no choice at all, really. Even if it hadn’t been for his raging libido he knew that Hermione was right. The Ministry had gone too far and was slowly crushing the life out of the magical community. In a way it was worse than it had been under Voldemort!

In a moment he was up and moving, calling Hermione’s name, as he snatched the door open. She was stood right behind it and threw herself into his arms as he surged outwards. There was a sudden crushing pressure against them and a dizzying twist of gravity.

As their feet hit solid ground again Hermione shoved Draco away from her and he stumbled backwards, his legs hitting the side of her large bed, tumbling him to the mattress. The after effects of their sudden Apparition still swam Draco’s vision a little but he could see the candles lit around Hermione’s room, smell the sweet scent of vanilla and sandalwood in the air.

“Good choice, Headmaster,” Hermione said, as she ripped open her blouse, exposing her breasts, barely restrained by her delicate lingerie, and Malfoy felt his heart skip.

“¡Viva la Revolución!” he thought, with a grin, as she fell on top of him.


End file.
